


Hidden in Plain Sight

by noobcake



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Rare Pairings, Secret Relationship, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noobcake/pseuds/noobcake
Summary: You know what they say about assuming...





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about assuming...

The two are notable only because qunari and humans don't often travel through southern Ferelden in pairs.

As a larger group of mercenaries, yes--usually with a few elves and dwarves in the mix. As part of a merchant caravan, absolutely, although the qunari in that case tend to be hired muscle. As members of a trade delegation from the Free Marches, rarely. And so the innkeeps and stable owners, bakers and tavern cooks with whom these two do business during their travel notice them, but don't connect the dots enough to understand who they're seeing or why.

When they discuss the pair, and they do, it's like this:

"That one armed qunari and her master."

"That traveler and his bodyguard."

"Those veterans what came through there the other day, that ox-lady with one arm, and the man with the scar."

When the travelers insist on sharing a room, it is assumed that this is to save coin, or that one of them will sleep on the floor. The travelers don't do anything to correct these ideas. They only argue on the (happily rare) occasions when it is suggested that the human take a room in the inn, and the qunari sleep in a shed or a barn. And even then they don't get loud about it. Instead they leave and, the observer is left to suppose, go set up camp in a field somewhere.

But every so often someone is paying attention. A child playing in the street, an old woman watching the world from her porch, a town guard who served in the Inquisition. That last, especially. And they'll figure out a piece of the story, but not the whole. Who these two are maybe, but not what they are to each other. Or the reverse.

The qunari and the human don't much mind. They're not here to cause a fuss; they're headed east to South Reach for now, north to Denerim, across to Kirkwall eventually. And then, who knows?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Found on parchment at the University of Orlais, and delivered sometime thereafter by unknown parties to the desk of Divine Victoria.

Common wisdom throughout Ferelden and Orlais has it that the Inquisition leadership wasn't unified in the early days. That is an understatement, of course.

The Inquisitor, for one thing, began as a prisoner and prime suspect in the murder of Divine Justinia herself. To add to that, the Chantry found itself leaderless and in disarray, with the Left and Right Hands of the Divine in open conflict with the Chantry bureaucracy, its Templars, and its Mage charges, each of which had their own angry factions with which to content.

Somehow this mess coalesced into the Inquisition, with an assassin, a dense but earnest Chantry enforcer, a wily Antivan minor noble and diplomat, and a former Templar Knight-Commander at its apex. Depending on one's mode of thinking, the prisoner came to be part of this group, and eventually to lead it, either because she was blessed by Andraste, or because her hand bore a green mark that was inconveniently the only tool known to be able to seal Fade rifts. Regardless, she likely would have been executed or left to rot in a dungeon had she not immediately proven useful to the other four.

They argued constantly at first, by all accounts including their own, but came to an uneasy accord and began to build a proper organization together. The most delicious stories and speculation focus mostly on the Left and Right Hands of the Divine (the assassin, and the enforcer, respectively), and on the Antivan due to her skill and noble status. But of the Prisoner-turned-Inquisitor, and the fallen Templar, there has been less talk.

Possibly the Templar, who became the Inquisition's General, is simply a bland and straightforward figure. And there is some residual shame associated with leaving the Templar Order, even though one could hardly blame those who left during the Inquisition-era troubles. The reformed Order may wish to highlight its successes over its clear failures.

Possibly the Inquisitor's privacy is being respected, or that lack of discussion reflects confusion about what she represents. Or she may finally have succumbed to Tal Vashoth madness after all this time, though that said to be unlikely by many who met her. Regardless, a leader with grey skin and horns is something the Chantry's faithful are wont to hand-wave as an anomaly or an error in the text. Already in retellings of the Inquisition's story, we see the name Herah Adaar being changed to Helen Adams and similar. Reliable information about her grows thinner on the ground by the day.

Tell me, when was the last time you heard anyone talk about these two and what became of them after the Inquisition was dissolved?

The official records have them leaving Skyhold on the same day as the other leaders. Unlike the others, there is no overly detailed account of their goodbyes, what they packed to take with them, what they left behind. Their companion, the author and Viscount of Kirkwall, Varric Tethras, neglects to publish even a fictionalized version of their departure.

What has happened to them, then?

I put it to you, esteemed colleagues, that these two individuals are still active in the world, and that news of their doings and whereabouts is being actively quashed by the Chantry. The former Inquisitor is a one-armed qunari female with a Free Marches accent, and the former General is a favorite hero of Fereldan, said to have a prominent facial scar. Without powerful meddling, how could it be so difficult to find two such imposing and controversial figures?

I mean to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the best place to hide is out in the open.

The pair have been moving on foot since the last town, attended by their mabari hound. About an hour ago, they'd been on the main road headed east, but suddenly they'd veered south onto a barely-a-road that took them deeper into the countryside, a patchwork of groves and clearings and gently rolling hills.

"You're sure you don't wanna go into Honnleath for old time's sake? Or at least visit where you used to live?" There is caution in Herah's voice, as there always is when discussing his past. Or not caution, exactly, but care. She trusts him to be mindful of his own well-being, and that's what makes him smile at her now.

Cullen shakes his head. "I don't know anyone in Honnleath anymore, and I prefer to remember my old home as it was. I have something better in mind for tonight. We're almost there."

"Mmm. Your call. Tired of inns anyway," she says, returning her gaze to the narrowing path ahead of them. She adjusts the bedroll and pack on her back, then absent-mindedly sets her right hand on the pommel of the dagger at her waist. The remnant of her left arm moves as if she would have done the same with her left hand, though she doesn't wield her second dagger anymore. "Stay on this trail?"

"Yes. It'll take us right to a lake."

The dog barks a couple of times in what Cullen thinks is relief. It's always tense, entering a new town. Will they be able to find accommodation, will anyone see them as a threat, will anyone recognize them and cause a commotion, and so on. Camping here will be a respite from all that, and they've got enough food to last them at least until the next trading post along the main road.

Herah moves ahead and they continue single file.

She is beautiful to Cullen anywhere, but in this late afternoon light, his eyes fix on her over and over until finally he just lets them stay. Sun and shadow dapple her white braid, casting it in gold and pale blue. The silver from her ear piercings glints, contrasting with the matte black horns that spiral back from her forehead. She moves with the confidence of someone who's fought dragons and worse, and won. Repeatedly. It's going to take him months, if not years, to break the old habit of hiding his feelings by looking at anything _but_ her. But break it he will, by the Maker, for there's no reason to hide anymore, and there is much lost time to make up for. 

Apart from a brief detour to harvest an elfroot patch spotted just off the trail, they make good time, and reach their destination long before sundown.

"This it?" Herah asks over her shoulder.

"Let's set up near the dock," he replies. The lake before them is as he remembers it, clear and shimmering, brook-fed, shaded by a grove of trees to one side, surrounded by emerald reeds. The dock seems smaller, and the grasses shorter, but he was only a boy when he last saw it. It all _was_ bigger in proportion to him, back then.

They unload belongings, stand up their tent, and gather kindling for a later campfire. The dog trots in widening circles around them--it is his ritual to explore the territory and sniff out any immediate dangers. A few times now, he's alerted them to ant hills and wasp nests in their vicinity, and once he discovered a dead deer, so Cullen and Herah have encouraged him with praise and treats. But this time, it seems he's not caught any alarming scents, and so he darts off into the trees.

"Looking for rabbits, boy?" Herah calls after him. "Don't be gone too long, please."

A single short bark acknowledges her request.

Cullen tests the dock's old wooden boards with one foot, and they're still solid, so he walks to the end, looks out over the water, closes his eyes and breathes. The crickets and frogs haven't started their evening song yet, but they will soon. Water laps gently at the underside of the dock. The air smells of earth and clover, just as it used to. And then, Herah is beside him.

She rests the end of her left arm on his shoulder. It's progress--there was a period after she lost the forearm when she would hold its remainder away from him, certain he would be repelled. Cullen reaches up to cup it with one hand, and pulls his other arm around her waist, drawing her closer.

"So, where are we?" she asks him. "What is this place to you?"

"I loved my siblings very much, but they were loud. I would come here to escape. To get some quiet." For a few moments, he tries to summon additional words to tell her...what, exactly? How much it means to be here with her, alive and free, in one of the few places from his past that haven't been physically obliterated or ruined by painful memories? How he wanted to bring her here many times before, but that had been when their love was new and secret? How he once daydreamed of proposing to her in this very spot?

But Herah knows him well, now. And when she looks at him, it's obvious that she intuits most of this already, with only small details to fill in. Herah shifts under his arm and kisses the side of his head, just above the temple.

"This is a gift, then. Thank you," she murmurs, and stands with him in the stillness, taking it all in. 

A colossal SPLASH behind and to the right interrupts shatters the calm. The dog, having discovered the effects of combining gravity and water, is now paddling in the shallows a few feet away, barking and possibly grinning.

" _Hey_ ," calls out Herah. "HEY. We were having a _moment_. That looks fun, though. Is the water all right?" Then she shakes her head and turns to Cullen. "Why'm I asking him? Should be asking _you_. Is this lake good to swim in?"

His instinctive first thought is for his armor, to see whether any droplets from the splash had landed on it; water and heavy armor aren't friends, and care must be taken against rust. But he isn't wearing heavy armor these days, is he? An impish smile creeps across his face. "It should be. It used to be."

Herah is already thumbing the prong on her belt buckle. She turns back to the dog and calls out. "All good? No leeches or walking dead?"

The dog paddles further toward the middle of the lake, and provides two happy barks as commentary.

"Right. I'm going in. Could use a bath anyway." She begins shucking her clothing. She's gotten good at doing so one-handed, and it comes off in short order, boots, smallclothes, and all. 

Cullen loves that she's like this, spontaneous and unselfconscious. And he loves that she doesn't judge him for being less so. Right now, if he told her he was going to go read by the campfire for the whole evening, she'd wave at him and continue swimming. No pouting, no complaining about his being a spoilsport later. 

He is _definitely_ joining her in the lake today, however.

He gathers her discarded things and carries them over to the campsite, where he folds and stacks them neatly, then removes his own clothing. As he does, he remembers the first time Herah saw him naked. It was when they were more than colleagues, less than best friends. He'd lost everything from his armor to his smalls in Varric's game of Wicked Grace after drinking too much ale and fatally underestimating Josephine's skill at the game. After the game was over, he sat trying to figure out how he, the Inquisition's General, would make it to his quarters across Skyhold's freezing courtyard with any dignity at all, when Herah just...stood up, took off her own shirt, and handed it to him. It was simple cream linen, still warm as he hurried to put it on. Most important, it was long enough to cover all that needed covering.

"Wh--what about you?" he'd stammered. 

"Eh. I'm covered." Herah pointed with both index fingers at her qunari breastband, and Cullen found himself averting his eyes. If she noticed, she gave no sign of it. "C'mon, I'll walk you to your tower." And she did just that, escorting him through Solas' rotunda onto the rampart, and across it to his quarters. She walked him there, shooed him inside, and left. He kept the shirt on. _Too drunk to change into proper bedclothes_ , he'd told himself. It still smelled like her. Alone in his bed that night, he fell asleep thinking about the Inquisitor. Strange that the most dangerous friend he'd ever had could also be one of the kindest.

He shakes himself out of his reverie, digs a cake of soap and a scrub brush out of his pack, and wades out into the water after Herah, who has seen him approaching and begun to swim toward him in lazy strokes, her legs doing most of the work.

"It's nice in here," she calls to him. "Didn't realize I had so much road grit on me. A little chilly, though."

They move to a depth where they can both stand and bathe, and alternate scrubbing each other's backs and shoulders. They've long since memorized each other's scars, and Cullen knows her tattoos by heart, but he enjoys any opportunity to look at them anew. When he's finished, he presses a kiss to the back of her neck while undoing the end of her braid. "Let's not forget your hair."

"Ah," she says, and submerges, kneeling a few seconds on the lake bed before popping up, shaking her head and spraying droplets everywhere. "And now, your turn."

Cullen chuckles and falls deliberately backward to drop beneath the surface of the water. When he was a boy, he used to count to see how long he could stay under, there in the tranquil bluegreen of the lake. Opening his eyes now, he can see it hasn't changed much. A bed of mud and rounded stones at the bottom, scattered streamers of seaweed around the edges. He bobs back up to the surface, floating on his back.

Herah says something, the words muted by water in his ears. He turns his head slightly to see her stepping toward him, a small wake forming behind her. When she reaches him she bends, holding her dripping hair away from his face, and brushes the gentlest of kisses against his forehead, the end of his nose, his lips. Straightening and looking down at him, she cups the back of his head under the water, stroking fingers through his hair with a light touch so as not to disturb his equilibrium. 

She speaks again, and he can hear better this time. "Hi. Couldn't resist."

He blinks up at her. The waning sunlight catches the rivulets on her skin, turning it silvery. The breeze has given her a touch of gooseflesh and pebbled her nipples. She doesn't shrink from his gaze at all, merely tilting her head to the side waiting for him to speak. Slowly, and without dropping his eyes from hers, he rights himself in the water, finds footing on the lake bed, and pulls her into his arms. Anchoring himself with a hand pressed to the small of her back, he lets his other hand stroke her cheek as he kisses her.

"Hello, my love," he tells her between ending one kiss and beginning the next. 

Herah leans down, deepening the contact. Her fingers play against the muscles of his back, walking themselves down...

"Should we maybe take this up as a topic for War Table discussion?" she whispers into his ear. Their little joke. A code, back in Skyhold, for 'Let's go somewhere private.'

Back in the tent, they curl together on hastily unfurled bedrolls, shivering a little from cool air on their wet skin. Herah gives a little moan into Cullen's mouth as he kisses her. He cups a breast to warm it, then suckles at its tip, prompting her hips to buck against his thigh. The taste of her on his tongue, the heat and wet between her legs when she wants him, the things she _says_ when they make love, he'll never get over how good any of this is. He wonders if he'll always be like this, taking a fraction of a second to assess whether this pleasure is a desire demon's trick, and then relieved when it isn't. Probably. But in its damaged way, the relief makes these moments all the sweeter. She is real. She is solid. She is here. That's the Maker's truth.

Herah's hand snaking between their bodies brings him back to the here and now, and he shifts to give her access. He's hard already, and when she swirls a fingertip around the head of his cock, smearing the drop welling from its tip, he gasps and kisses her hard.

"I'm ready for you," she murmurs against his lips. 

He moves fully between her legs, bracing his weight on one hand while the other covers her fingers on his cock. "So quickly? Show me."

She pulls her knees up so that they bracket his flanks, and guides his tip up and down against her opening. She's slick and hot, and he sinks in all the way to the root.

"Put your weight on me. I want you close," she tells him.

Cullen's happy to oblige, feeling her ankles hook together around him, her heels digging into his backside. He leans on his elbow instead, grasping the hair at the nape of her neck and making a fist, earning a shudder from his lover. She grabs his other hand, the one that was on her clit moments ago, winks at him, and sucks on his first two fingers. What comes out of him is a combination of a laugh and a lustful groan, and he bends to making little bites along Herah's neck and collar bones. They rock like this, locked tight together, building their pleasure up layer by layer. 

Her rhythm shows signs of becoming erratic first. Cullen pulls his fingers from her mouth and uses them, still wet with her saliva, to roll first one nipple, then the other.

"Cheating," she grits out, and skates her blunted nails down his back to the base of his spine, where she takes a handful of his left buttock. He takes it as a cue to grind against her even harder, which results in a whispered, "Soon..."

"Soon what?" He knows very well what Herah means, but hearing her say it aloud does _things_ to him. And she knows it.

"Gonna--ah--come, I just...I just need--" 

"What do you need?" Though he tries to keep his voice relatively calm, Cullen is almost on the edge himself, and it comes out rough. 

She throws her head back, digging the curve of her horns into the thin bedroll. "Ah--yeah, Cullen--just like that...justlikethat...I--" 

Her peak hits _then_ , bowing her spine as she spasms deliciously around him. All he can manage is a raspy, "Maker!" as he buries himself inside her a few more times before he, too, is lost to pleasure.

When their breath returns, they stay wrapped in each others' embrace for minutes, foreheads together, whispering endearments. This slow tenderness is a more recent tradition, replacing an earlier necessity of a fumbling re-donning of armor, a quick kiss and conversation about when next they would have time together, and then figuring out who would leave the room first to see if the coast was clear. It has _almost_ become Cullen's favorite part, and he hadn't known he needed it until the first time he'd had any leisure time with Herah.

"We didn't really finish cleaning up. Should do that before the sun goes down," Herah says, after a time. And so they disentangle, and proceed languidly through the evening. The dog has been drying his fur on the dock, waiting for dinner. They bathe (successfully, this time), dress, start the campfire, eat, and finally sleep.

At dawn, they pack everything up and survey the area from the dock. Herah runs her fingers through Cullen's hair, which without its usual careful tending has gone curly. "Lover, this was a good idea."

He nods. A better idea than he could have imagined, adding his beloved wife into the good memories he has here. He may never see this place again, so he takes one last look at the lake, the sky, the trees. The play of light on the morning dew, the shadows where the sun hasn't yet touched the earth. This memory, above most others, he wants to retain as long as he is able.

"Shall we?" he asks. They start back down the path to the main road, the dog trotting alongside them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A progress report.

Most Holy,

You were correct in your suspicion. More correct than you knew, in fact. There are three separate parties, answering to three separate masters, following your friends east through Ferelden.

That said, I have somewhat happy news: two of the groups, answering to Par Vollen and the University of Orlais, are significantly hobbled; the former, consisting of stens and a viddathari elf, cannot travel openly without being gawked at and questioned, and the latter simply have no idea what in the Maker's name they're doing. We have been able to throw them off the scent for now by means of misdirection. They have been made to believe the General has an urge to revisit his past at his former Circle post. Tell any allies you have at Kinloch Hold to watch for strangers trying to gain access to the island and its Tower. 

The third group troubles me, and I believe they answer to FH. They are very thorough in disguising their activities, and have a better sense of where your friends are likely to turn up than the other groups do. They scouted CR's former family home and were so bold as to question its current occupants, posing as three elven servants of a local nobleman who wished to invite the General to his estate. This was unsuccessful only because the family living in the former CR home had no information to give, and instead got the idea that someone wished to reclaim their house for the R family. The family now knows how to get in touch with us should they receive any more unwanted visits, by the way.

Currently this group is headed toward the plot of land which the Chantry has granted the CR for his retirement. This means they know that land was granted to him. Let's look into that.

If your friends stay on their course to South Reach, at the same speed, they should get there without encountering FH's people. If you can, please warn them to keep a low profile. I have taken the liberty of seeding the inns and roadside towns in the southeast with information that HA and CR are traveling direct to Denerim via carriage with all the noble trappings.

I note also that each of these groups are trying hard to find CR because of his ties in the region. He is the easiest target at present. Should CR and HA head very far north, we can expect them to try to use her ties as their tools as well, or instead.

Yours in service to the Maker,

[redacted]


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not totally oblivious, of course.

They skip the village of Redcliffe; Herah is too well-known in the region. Instead, they stop in the next town east, which is little more than an inn, a chantry, and a trading post. The inn also contains a former Inquisition safehouse. It is now officially a Chantry safehouse, but that doesn't make much difference to the iron-haired, hatchet-faced innkeep, who takes one look at Herah, Cullen, and the dog, makes a 'tsk' sound, and wordlessly bustles them up the back stairs to a hidden attic guestroom. It's cramped but solid, with the bare essentials. A bed that in theory holds two, a dressing screen, a chamber pot, a battered desk with two rickety chairs, a couple of brass candlesticks with stubby candles in them, and a braided rug in the center of the floor. The only natural sources of light are two small windows, vents really, on either side of the attic's main support beam.

"Inquisitor. General," the innkeep says, "I've a message for you. Came by raven this morning." With calloused fingers, she holds out a slender strip of parchment. Cullen takes it and reads, holding it so Herah can see as well.

_The lion has three tails. So far, just nosey, not violent. Proceed, but with caution._

It is signed simply, "L."

"My thanks," says Herah. "We--" She has to make nice, but her feet and back are screaming for rest, and she knows it's not much better for Cullen, who started the day with a headache and basically walked it off.

"I don't want to know, not my business." The woman waves off whatever Herah had been about to say. "It's an honor to serve. Speakin' of which, I'll bring up dinner at sundown. Don't come down to the kitchen or nothin'. Too many people about. If you need anythin', put candlestick outside the door and I'll knock when I see it. Knock will be two short, three long. Come dawn, I'll show you out of town the back way."

"Works for me. Upfront, we could use a map of the area with back roads marked, if you have it, and water for drinking and washing, please. Oh, and two basins." All of that gets out of Herah's mouth before she realizes she's clicked over into Inquisitor mode. But if the innkeep is at all fazed, she hides it. 

"Need potions? We don't have much on hand, but I can see what there is." She gives her guests a full once-over at this point, probably to make sure they aren't hiding any wounds.

Herah shakes her head. "I brew my own. Got extra, actually. Barter?"

The woman's expression softens by a fraction. "Now you're talkin'. Call me Agatha." By the end of the negotiation, Agatha has a substantially restocked medicine supply. Herah has come away with a bit of coin, a quantity of dried meat that will get her party to the next stop, and a large beef bone for the dog. 

"Right," says Agatha. "I'll go get the water and basins. The map will be up with your dinner." 

* * *

Cullen is unusually quiet during dinner. In fact, Herah noticed him become pensive right after she asked Agatha for the extra basin. 

Early in their friendship, she might have mistaken this silence for sulking. But Cullen isn't a sulker; instead, he _mulls_. In general, Herah likes this trait, but tonight she's less patient. Kith on a mission have to communicate, and that's essentially what they are right now.

"What's on your mind, lover?" she asks him.

"Ah. Well," Cullen says, absently brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. He's stopped taming his curls with pomade entirely since their stop at the lake days ago, and hasn't had it trimmed in three weeks. He's got a beard and moustache filling in, all of it a gold color that Herah never gets tired of seeing in the sunlight. All the better that it makes him harder to recognize, including hiding the scar on his upper lip. "I was thinking about vitaar."

"I figured." Herah reaches for his hand across the table, lacing their fingers together. "I wish there were a better way."

Vitaar, the reason for the extra basin, is a skin-hardening face and body paint used by her people for generations, if not millennia. To Herah, it's not only a defensive measure, turning her skin the consistency of hard leather, but a disguise that makes her look like any other qunari hired muscle to humans, elves, and dwarves. And the paint feels good to put on. It reminds her of her heritage, of family and kith. While it makes facial expressions difficult, it's expressive in its own way, applied with complex patterns, many of them meant to be intimidating, all of them beautiful to her eye. Wearing vitaar says to the world, _I know what I am, and I'm ready to fight._

But vitaar is also _toxic_ to non-qunari. Including humans. Something in the qunari constitution, and Herah has her theories as to what, makes them immune to the negative effects. But Cullen is human, and if he touches her face or body where she's painted, depending on the herbs used in the vitaar mixture, he could develop a rash, or bleed, or become weakened. This used to be a benefit, too--when she wore vitaar, there was no chance that she and Cullen would slip and be overly familiar with each other in public. Now, sharing their first taste of freedom after the Inquisition, it will put a distance between them that neither of them wants to bear.

He squeezes her hand. "It happened so quickly, getting used to being close whenever we wished. But you're right, you should wear it to be safe. And it'll only be a little while..."

Herah smiles. "I got used to it, too. And we'll have it again. A few days, and then we'll see your family, and I'll wash it off then." She worries about this visit, even though Cullen's sister Mia has been very kind in the letters she sends. She has seemed not just accepting, but welcoming of her little brother's qunari companion, which is a good sign.

But.

There's reading a letter where your little brother, whom you haven't seen in over a decade, implies he's in a relationship with the Inquisitor, and then there's having your little brother turn up on your doorstep with a large, one-armed, vitaared Vashoth in tow. Herah's not worried about the dog, though. Mia will like the dog. Everyone likes the dog.

"Do you think we should still go to South Reach, after that message?" Cullen asks. 

"We _are_ going to visit Mia, Cullen. She needs to see you. You need to see her. Leliana said 'proceed,' so I'm inclined to do that."

Cullen wavers for only a second, his eyes darting to the wall and back, takes a deep breath, straightens his spine. "I want my family safe. We'll have to take every precaution not to be recognized on our way to them. Vitaar it is, then."

Herah stands, not letting go of his hand. "I don't have to put it on until tomorrow, though."

Tonight, they won't make love. Can't, unless they want the whole inn below to hear the bed and floorboards creaking to a rhythm everyone knows. The small bed's mattress dips in the middle, and the two travelers chuckle when they realize this means they'll be crammed together all night. Just what they need, to prepare for morning. They sleep fitfully, trading off who is Big Spoon, alternating between snoozing and full sleep. There are nightmares--there are always nightmares, for both of them--and after, Herah is lulled back to sleep by Cullen's even breath on the back of her neck, the weight of his arm draped over her ribs, his knee hooked over the back of her thigh. Her drifting mind remembers how this General, who others only touched to shake his hand, had trembled just a little when she first held him unarmored. The contact was almost too much, after so long without it. And then he'd furrowed his brow, set his shoulders, and kissed her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Viscount of Kirkwall's private correspondence. Delivered via raven.

Rorand,

Got a group coming through your turf in South Reach needing safe passage and a safe perimeter where they're staying. I've marked that on the attached map. They have watchers, most likely in the form of inquisitive elves, but others also possible. If you happen to get any good info on the watchers, there's a nice bonus in it for you, so keep that in mind.

The party that needs safe passage is as follows:

  * Human male, 30s-ish, blond hair. Will have either a scar on his upper lip or a moustache to cover it. Muscular build, above average height for a human.
  * Qunari female, probably wearing vitaar, white hair, black horns in a ram's horn sort of shape. Missing left forearm. About a hand span taller than the human.
  * A mabari hound.



They're going to be tired and cranky. I'll route them through the trader's gate.

I'll cover any losses or equipment. These are my friends.

-VT

* * *

Your Inquisitorialness and Curly,

I've got this. Use the trader's gate at your destination. Rorand is a friendly, he'll get you where you need to go.

Send word when you're on your way to Kirkwall. Keep in touch until then.

-VT


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions are complicated, sometimes.

Mia Rutherford's reunion with her brother begins with the distinctive sound of a mabari's bark in the early morning. Its voice ricochets off the cobblestones in the street and through the open window of her small kitchen. It must be down the lane. Still a bit bleary from sleep, she continues to knead bread dough in a wooden bowl before her.

After a minute's pause, the barking starts up again, closer this time.

_Probably a merchant who's gotten turned around_ , Mia thinks as she kneads. All the important parts of South Reach are the other way. Town hall, inn, trader's gate, everything.

Another bark. This time, right in front of her house, so close she can hear the hound's owner shushing it. Owners, actually, a woman and a man, and they sound...they sound...

A man's voice says, "Maker's breath!" loud enough for Mia to hear clearly. Before he finishes, Mia is halfway to her front door, wiping her hands on her apron. Though the voice is deeper than it used to be, Mia would know the cadence of it, the amused exasperation behind it anywhere. _Anywhere_. She flings open her front door, only vaguely aware of the noise it makes when it hits its doorstop, steps out into the grey light, and stares at the travelers in front of her:

A mabari hound, its stubby tail wagging so hard that its whole hindquarters are involved.

A white-haired qunari woman in full face paint--vitaar, it's called--kneeling in front of the mabari to calm its barking. The woman doesn't so much stand as unfold from the ground, becoming taller than Mia imagined.

And a bearded human man, turning to Mia as he combs a mass of shaggy blond curls out of his face with his fingers.

"Mia?" He asks, and barely gets the word out before she's flung herself into his arms.

She's thought about this moment thousands of times over the years, trying to predict how such an encounter would go. How does one greet a brother who was barely a man when one saw him last, and who is now in his thirties? How does one treat a man who suffered some undescribed series of traumas and turned in on himself, dropping out of contact rather than letting his family help? At what point does one make it clear that he wasn't the only one who suffered?

When she saw him, would she emit some unearthly shriek, or be able to form words? Would she scream at him for not being there during the Blight when they lost Mother and Father, or for keeping her oscillating between grief when she thought he was dead, and rage when she found he'd simply not been answering her letters? Would she forget her anger as soon as she laid eyes on him? Would she be unable to contain her barrage of questions about what in the Maker's name _happened_ to him? Would she beg his forgiveness for encouraging his desire to become a Templar, when that seems to have been the source of a great deal of pain for him? Would she coolly invite him inside as though he visited every day? 

The answer, it turns out, is none of these. Her eyes flood with tears, and she can't make any sound at all. She just clutches at Cullen, burying her face in the shoulder of his filthy jacket, telling herself that this isn't a dream. It can't be; he _reeks_ from travel and who would dream that? The man says nothing. She can hear his ragged breathing, feel his arms crush her to him with more strength than she remembers him having. Maybe she's crushing him, too. She doesn't care.

"You _are_ Cullen, aren't you?" Mia asks, her voice thick. "If not, I fear I have some explaining to do."

"I am," he confirms, "Though I understand why you need to ask."

Mia pulls back to look at his face. She would have passed him on the street without recognizing him, had she not heard him speak. She sees it now, though. The color of his hair is the same as she remembers. He has Mother's amber eyes, and Father's nose, and it hurts all over again that they can't be here for this. She swallows and turns to his companions. 

The Inquisitor looks like she stepped from a Chantry-forbidden book of ancient heroes, and Mia can't digest what she's seeing all in one go. Even if this weren't one of the most famous people in all of Thedas, it wouldn't be like meeting a dwarf or an elf. Those folk are common enough to be unremarkable in South Reach, qunari men somewhat less so, but Mia can count the number of qunari women she's seen one hand. And oh, what a blessing she hasn't said any of this aloud, as the Inquisitor seems to have lost an arm. Cullen didn't mention this in any letter. Either he decided it was the Inquisitor's private matter to divulge if she wished (understandable), or he's back to hiding painful things (less understandable).

In any case, they should all get out of the street or the neighbors will talk. So Mia says the most practical thing she can manage under the circumstances. "Would you like some tea?"

"I would love tea," says the other woman. Her voice is low and sweet, with a Free Marches accent, and tinged with fatigue or sympathy or both. 

_This won't do,_ Mia tells herself. What a lukewarm way to welcome the person whose patience and encouragement...and Mia strongly suspects love...helped reconnect her with the brother she worried she'd never see again. On impulse, she seizes the Inquisitor's large, gloved hand. From what she's read, it should be safe to touch with no vitaar on it. Dark eyes widen, but after a moment, fingers curl around Mia's hand.

"Then come inside, sister," says Mia Rutherford. "You too, brother. And let's find this fine hound a bone, shall we?" Without letting go of the Inquisitor, and taking Cullen's hand in her free one, she leads her family into the quiet of her house. 


End file.
